Traitor

by David Hingley

  ‘Everyone has been busy,’ she observed. Then she looked out to sea. ‘My God, Mr Malvern. Are we truly ready for another war?’

  ‘It is as the King commands it. One day, perhaps, we shall cease our arguments with Europe, but that day is not yet come.’

  ‘I doubt it ever shall. The King remains on land, I trust?’

  ‘Safe in his inn, I am told. Your friend is there too.’

  ‘My friend?’

  ‘Sir William Calde.’

  ‘Ah, indeed. But as much as you have duties on your ship, I have duties here. Nicholas would have told you Virgo is in Harwich. I cannot believe she will give up this opportunity to spy on the council away from the palace. When she does, I mean to find her.’

  ‘Then I wish you luck. We are both England’s soldiers, in our way. Now follow me.’

  He led her around the edge of the town, ducking into a side street where the houses overhung the roads as grimly as they did in London: certainly, the stench of effluence, animal and human, was the putrid same. Towards the end of the narrow lane, a timber-framed building projected from the rest. Malvern passed in through the door.

  ‘This is where I have been lodging with some others while not on the ships, but no one will need it tonight. We go back and forth, but … no longer. If you wish to stay in town, stay here. There is a well nearby for water, and a privy. Let me show you where to hide if you need it.’

  She followed him down a small set of stairs to a pantry of sorts. A trapdoor was set in the floor, but unlike at Zion, this one was fully exposed.

  Malvern swung it open. ‘If anyone arrives you do not much trust, you can drop down here. Have a look now, if you wish.’

  She shook her head. ‘I do not need to see it to know what it must be like. Is there a room where I can wash?’

  ‘Please, I insist. If only to be sure you know where to go.’

  ‘Giles, I can see where to go. Why would I need …’

  She trailed off. His arms were folded, and he was blocking the way from the pantry. He took a step forwards. But then he smiled.

  ‘As ever, Mrs Blakewood, I expect you will please yourself. But I would perhaps take a candle with you if you do need to descend. I would light one now, from the fire in the front room, if it is still burning.’

  She realised she had been holding her breath. ‘Thank you, Giles.’

  ‘Take any of the beds. I cannot say they are comfortable, but they serve a tired man. A tired woman, indeed. Throw the belongings on the floor, such as remain. I do not like leaving you on your own like this, but my ship cannot wait.’

  ‘I have been in worse positions. I will cope.’

  ‘Put the door on the latch.’ Turning to leave, he looked her up and down. ‘And please, Mercia. Keep safe.’

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Who was Gemini? Despite what Malvern had said, she still did not trust Thomas Howe. Who was to say he was not deceiving Malvern, as Virgo was deceiving all around her? Maybe Gemini was just a common tar, and the Duke was safe, but whoever he was, she would have to leave him to Nicholas for now. She was in Harwich with the three women she thought could be Virgo, and that was the mission she had been entrusted, where her efforts needs now must lie.

  Early evening was upon the town, but the sky was still blue, and would be for some time. After a quick wash, she went out into the streets, for she realised she was hungry. Keen to walk where the air was fresh, she wandered along the road that led out of town until not far down she found the inn she remembered passing on the way there, a white building with a pleasant aspect that reminded her of some of the hostelries back home. Now quite ravenous, she went inside to find a table and order dinner, a tasty dish of the freshest green peas and the most succulent roasted pork.

  She was sitting back, enjoying the crunch of perfect crackling, when a cloaked man sat down beside her.

  ‘I followed you from the town,’ he said. ‘Please, do not call out.’

  Well, she thought. This was unexpected.

  ‘Good evening, Mr Howe. Are you not meant to be on your ship?’

  Howe peered from under his bulbous hood. ‘I am securing our final supplies. Ensuring we have enough powder is part of my office.’

  ‘I suppose it is. Should you not then be doing it?’

  ‘The task is almost complete.’ He turned to face forward. ‘I wanted to warn you to keep away from my wife.’

  ‘A threat, Mr Howe? I have little to do with your wife.’

  ‘You know of what I speak. Cornelia’s will is weak. She should not be disturbed, or her humours will suffer.’

  ‘So you say. But whenever I have seen you together, you only seem to argue.’

  On the table, his hand flinched. ‘How I comport myself with my wife is not your affair.’

  ‘That is the second time I have heard a man say that of late. May I ask you a question?’

  ‘By all means. My quarrel is not with you as a person.’

  ‘Most gratifying.’ She looked at him askance. ‘What is your relation with Giles Malvern?’

  She noticed him swallow. ‘With whom?’

  ‘You are not a very good dissembler, Mr Howe. Mr Malvern has told me that you and he … know each other, shall we say?’

  ‘Malvern has …?’ His eyes fell on her knife, set atop her half-finished meat. ‘Yes, I know him. As it seems do you.’

  ‘But up until now, he has told neither of us of his association with the other. And yet somehow, Mr Howe, you appear to think I have an interest in your wife.’

  ‘Just leave her be, Mrs Blakewood.’ He got to his feet. ‘She has nothing to do with any of this.’

  ‘With any of what?’ she tried.

  But he was already halfway to the door.

  She traced her knife about her plate, chasing the peas around the final slice of pork. Then she drained her weak ale, threw down some coins, and followed Howe from the inn. If this had been winter, he would already have vanished into darkness, but there he still was, on foot in the middle of the road ahead, striving to avoid the many ruts.

  Sticking to the grass at the side of the road, she tailed him, her full stomach tingling in anticipation that he might turn his head and spy her pursuit. But she kept far enough back to remain unnoticed, and the one time he did look, she made sure to hold herself with confidence, continuing to walk as though she could be anyone else.

  He passed into town, and she quickened her pace, for fear she would lose him in the streets. But he stayed within sight, and once inside the gate she spotted him turn towards the harbour. Peering from a corner, she watched as he was met by another man who bowed and showed him a series of parchments. Then pulling down his hood, Howe seemed to nod as the man pointed out two heaps of barrels, the one much larger than the other. Soon enough, more sailors appeared, hauling the larger pile onto a waiting barge onto which they embarked once their task was complete. Howe climbed into a separate boat and cast himself off, speeding past the delicate barge in the direction of the fleet.

  Curious, she remained where she was, the evening sea breeze blowing at her face, watching to see if anything further should happen. But the remaining pile of barrels stayed unclaimed, and she sauntered to the seafront, feigning she was taking a stroll. When she reached the barrels, she looked for any mark that might reveal their contents, but there was nothing. Then a gruff shout barked its disgust.

  ‘Get away from those barrels! They’re mine!’

  She turned to see a small dray making its way towards her. A young man was driving, while the older man at his side was almost on his feet.

  ‘Get away, I say! That’s our ale!’

  She stood to one side. ‘What, did you think I was going to carry one off?’

  He spat as the driver reined in his horse. ‘You could have a gang hiding. Plenty of smugglers in these parts, to say nothing of Bill Steer at The Crown!’

  ‘Sir, I have no gang of any kind. It is always just me.’

  ‘Still, this is our reward
, and I’m not about to lose it to anyone who might have heard of it.’

  ‘Be quiet, Dad,’ said the younger man. ‘She’s no harm.’

  ‘How do I know ’tis not you taking someone else’s ale?’ she said in jest. ‘There is no mark.’

  ‘Shove aside, and let us through,’ growled the father. ‘This is part-payment for hosting the King. Check with His Majesty, if you like.’

  ‘His Majesty – whom I know.’

  ‘Begging your pardon, my lady.’ The son doffed his hat. ‘My father is a little … aged.’

  She inclined her head. ‘There is no offence. I shall leave you to your ale.’

  She stood to one side, watching the father snarl orders at his son and the two other men who had come with them. Gingerly, they eased the three barrels onto their dray, and with another doff of his hat, the driver steered his horses back towards the town. With no more to do at the harbourside, she followed the cart up the shallow hill, pausing at the same corner as before to see the dray stop outside the gate that led into the yard of the Three Cups.

  It was getting cold. Wishing she could enjoy a tankard of ale herself, instead she pulled her cloak about her and considered her next move. If the King was staying at the Three Cups with his war council, so too, she assumed, would be the women; indeed, the pompous red-cloaked official she had met on her arrival had told her as much about Lady Cartwright. And Lady Cartwright knew Lady Herrick: they were probably in a bedroom of the Three Cups now, gossiping about all manner of subjects.

  Perhaps the one learning from the other what she herself did not yet know.

  She leant against the wall. What would she do if she were Virgo? The King and his council were an easier target away from the palace. It was an irresistible opportunity, surely. How would she take advantage of that – if she were Virgo?

  Listening in? Too public – and too risky. What if she were caught with her ear to the wood of the King’s door? Hiding in the King’s room, or else in one of his councillor’s? She shook her head. Too absurd. Taking advantage of the time away, to say nothing of the council’s anxiety at the impending battle to try to … relax the man she was with? More plausible. And more likely, given that anxiety, to succeed in learning things she otherwise might not; or if the man were complicit, that he would have something useful to tell.

  What of Cornelia Howe? Although her husband’s threats had confirmed she was in Harwich, Mercia was not about to let those threats dissuade her. More tricky was to find where she might be. But if Cornelia were Virgo, and wanted to profit from events, she would surely find some way into the Three Cups herself.

  Mercia looked at the inn’s vibrant sign, its paint recently touched up, swinging in the breeze. Whatever she considered, everything seemed to point here. But she could hardly walk in through the door unnoticed. There were guards posted, for one.

  But there was another way in, perhaps.

  She strolled up to the dray by the gate; the two horses were brushing against the inn’s stone wall, pushing each other’s heads as they shared a bag of oats. Two of the barrels from the harbour had already been unloaded, but the third remained to be taken, and she waited for the workers to return, hoping the elderly owner would have entrusted the heavy task to his younger counterparts.

  True enough, the owner’s son soon appeared, jumping onto the cart. He rolled the barrel to his two waiting helpers, before looking left and right and taking a swig from a flask stored at his hip. On the other side of the gate, she noticed two guards were standing aside to allow the work to proceed apace.

  ‘Hello again,’ she said to the young man. ‘Looks like you have to be strong for that kind of work.’

  He smiled, flexing his arm muscles in the same boastful display she had been confronted with countless times before.

  ‘You do,’ he said. ‘And it is our ale, you know. The King himself said we might have it.’

  Out of sight of the guards, she leant against the cart. He was smooth-faced, not far into his twenties, she supposed. Around his neck he wore a woollen red cloth.

  ‘I did not doubt it,’ she said. ‘I was merely curious to see it left on the harbourside unclaimed.’

  ‘Well, now it is claimed, and safe in our cellar. ’Tis good stuff, too.’ He gestured towards the inn. ‘Do you want any? Or a glass of sack, perhaps?’

  ‘I am not thirsty.’ She inched a little closer. ‘It must be an honour to have the King stay at your inn.’

  ‘Aye, it is. You’ll have come with an officer yourself, I wager?’ He leapt nimbly to the ground. ‘Don’t worry, my lady, the Dutch have no chance. Every day I’ve seen our ships gather. ’Tis quite a sight.’

  ‘You were not pressed to fight yourself?’ she asked.

  ‘Too busy making sure everyone had their ale.’ He glanced down. ‘My brother’s out there, though, on the Charity. He’s only sixteen.’

  ‘Then I’m sure he’ll be safe too.’ She gave him a reassuring smile. ‘Is it just the men here now? Or are there women with them?’

  ‘Some women. Not many.’

  ‘Ladies of the court?’

  ‘Looks like it. And … one or two of their maids.’

  ‘I suppose you have been talking with them?’

  ‘Don’t get me wrong, my lady. I behave.’

  ‘It matters not to me.’ She pushed off from the cart to face him. ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Oli. Oli Moss.’

  ‘Well, Oli, do you think I might go inside your inn and sit?’

  ‘Everyone’s free to, my lady. No need to ask.’

  ‘Even with the King here?’

  ‘The King seems to like people to see him.’ He raised his head. ‘I even heard, my lady, folk in London can go and watch him get up and go to bed. Is that true?’

  She nodded. ‘It is. The lever and the coucher, they call it.’

  ‘Must be a sight. Have you seen it?’

  ‘No.’ She pictured the scene in her head. ‘Nor do I much wish to. Oli, I should like to go in through the back, if I may. There will be someone inside who would not want to see me enter. Someone’s wife. I fear she becomes jealous.’

  He scratched at his neck. ‘I don’t know, my lady. ’Tis not that slipshod here. We’re not supposed to let people in without them at least being searched.’

  ‘Then search me, if it eases your conscience.’

  His eyes fair popped from his head. ‘I can’t do that!’

  ‘Well, then.’

  ‘I mean I—’

  ‘Come, Oli, I do not want anyone to know I am here. I have arranged it with the man I am meant to meet.’ She reached into her pocket. ‘And I would hate you to lose out on this.’

  Moss stared as she twisted a silver coin in her fingers. ‘You can’t just bribe me, my lady.’

  ‘What harm am I going to do?’ She pulled at the folds of her dress. ‘Look at me. I am sure the King will be safe. Please, search me if you like.’

  ‘I don’t need to do that.’ He sucked in through his teeth. ‘Oh, give us that coin. If they ask, I’ll say you’re with me. But slouch a bit, as though you aren’t such a lady.’

  Heart racing, she pulled up her hood, but she supposed it hardly mattered. The worst the guards could do was send her on her way, unless they recognised her face and thought she should be in the Tower. But she need not have worried.

  ‘Who’s this?’ one said to Moss, scarcely bothered as he propped himself against the wall, sipping a beaker of ale.

  ‘Friend of my ma’s, ain’t she?’ said Moss.

  The guard wiggled his beaker. ‘Got any more for when I get off?’

  ‘For the King’s guard? Of course.’

  And they passed into the yard. Although it was still light, one or two torches had already been set, but their flames were almost invisible, in that way fire loses its brazen confidence in the presence of the sun, somehow aware it can never compete. The two workers from the harbour were slumped cross-legged beside the open cellar hatch: hidden behind h
er hood, she was nonetheless greeted by their unsuspecting whistles.

  At the door, Moss grinned. ‘Easy, no? If you want to get to the rooms, it’s through the door, dead ahead.’

  ‘Thank you, Oli,’ she said.

  ‘Watch out for my old dad, though, eh?’

  She smiled and, leaving him in the yard, entered a small passage that looked to be recently scrubbed. Immediately to her left was the kitchen, where two red-faced cooks were stirring large pots, from which an equally heated serving woman was plating trenchers and dishes. Behind their worktop, a wooden trapdoor in the floor provided interior access to the cellar, while to her right in the passage, a bucket and mop were stacked against a closed cupboard door.

  Straight in front, an opening led to a wider corridor in the main body of the inn. She put her head through, and immediately retracted it as she saw the elder Moss, but he was walking away from her, towards the main hall. Waiting for him to disappear, she pondered where she should go herself.

  Presumably the King was in the bedrooms upstairs, as surely Lady Herrick and Lady Cartwright would be as well. Would that she could catch one of them in the act of spying … but it was more likely, she thought wryly, that one of them would end up catching her. And so she edged into the corridor, feeling all the while exposed, thankful her hood was so concealing.

  A guard was posted at the bottom of a staircase, and she cursed to herself. How would she get up now? But as she dithered, Oli Moss’s voice sounded from behind.

  ‘Hey, Paddy,’ he called. ‘You want some ale?’

  She ducked back as the guard peered round.

  ‘Not right now,’ he said.

  ‘Then come get it for later. I’ll leave it here, by the door.’

  Moss retreated outside, not before giving Mercia a knowing smile: the sort of smile that might listen at guestroom doors, she thought. But she was thankful for it then, as the guard rubbed his hands and passed her by to retrieve his ale, giving her enough time to dash up the stairs hardly noticed.

  She came out onto a carpeted landing, a series of fine paintings lining the papered walls. Was the inn always this grand, she wondered, or had the finery been installed for the King’s brief visit, to be removed as soon as he had gone? In front of her, a galleried landing formed a wide rectangle around an open space below, four doors giving to bedrooms on each long side. In one of those was the King, she supposed, perhaps pacing his room, worrying for the fate of his fleet and his brother. In one of the others, for all she knew, awaited Virgo.